Maturement

Take heart!  Be strong! Stand firm!  Little T, that mighty girl, that force of nature, that pint sized hurricane…even she can listen to her mama.

Parents, everywhere, if this kid can listen, absorb, and change behavior accordingly, then guess what: this parenting thing isn't impossible after all.  We can make a difference and -- dare to hope -- raise contributing members of society!

Little T came to me the other day and said:

"Mama, I'm having a lot of maturement lately!  

I just put my shoes away the first time you asked!  And I was going to yell at you from the couch to bring me more food, but I got up and made it myself instead!  I even warmed it up in the microwave and put the parmesan cheese on and everything!  And I was really mad at Sam, but I didn't even yell!  I just took a breath and it all went away!

I'm so maturement!"

(While not a fan of the exclamation point, I find it necessary here.  While she may be getting "more maturement" she is also only getting louder with age.)

This is so exciting, people.  This is proof that my words do not fall on deaf ears and that I can, in fact, bend these children to my will.  Every mother deserves some sign of encouragement like this at least once a decade (which is about how often we get them).  With these words in my ears, I just might make it to her 16th birthday!  

* * *

All that maturity aside, she still hijacks my phone with some regularity.  More baby steps.

She's On To You, New Teacher

I took my 5th grader to a Meet and Greet with her new teacher this evening.  She seems very nice.  I liked her bearing.  Lady E was charming and sweet.  Then, when I mentioned to the teacher that the 5th graders are a great group of kids, Lady E said: "Well…we're a little goofy. Or a lot goofy."

Ms. New Teacher said: "Goofy is good!  I like goofy."

Later, at home, I asked Lady E if she liked Ms. New Teacher.  She said sure.  I remarked that I liked what her teacher said about being goofy.

Lady E cut to the chase: "They all say that at the beginning of the year.  At first, it's all 'Oh! Goofy is great!' and then by half way through it's all: 'STOP BEING GOOFY!' She's just trying to sweet talk us and pull the wool over our eyes."

Teachers beware: Mixed metaphors aside, this is one nine year old you will not be able to fool or trick or otherwise befuddle.  She's a sharp little thing who won't let you get away with much.

In other words, Ms. New Teacher, she's exactly the kind of student you want in your classroom: lucky you!

* * *

A Mother's Soliloquy

Just imagine that's me, and I'm
holding a spray bottle of Simple Green.  

To clean, or not to clean—that is the question.

Whether tis better in the main to suffer

The grime and messes of outrageous children

Or to take arms against a sea of clutter

And by opposing end it.  To clear, to wash

No more—and by one wash to say we end

The chaos, and the thousand natural shocks

That kids are good for.  ‘Tis an insanity

Foolishly to be wished.  To wash, to clean

To clean—perchance to rest; ay, there’s the rub,

For in that space of clean what chances come

When I have straightened up this living room

Must give them strength.  That’s the truth

That makes calamity of so much cleaning.

For they will grab the chance and scorn my time,

Th’ mother’s wrong, the proud children crazy,

The pangs of unpleasant work, the dirty dishes,

The insolence of children, and the spurns

A patient mother endures from piles of toys

When she herself might her good book read

With a cup of coffee?  Who would the burden bear

To grunt and sweat over a pile of laundry

But that the dread of something worse under the beds,

The undiscovered horrors, from whose depth

No mother will return, frightens the heart,

And makes us rather scrub those tubs we have

Than retreat to a clean we only dream of?

Thus conscience does make cleaners of us all,

And thus the natives do spur me to action

And I cast about with bitterness of thought

And clean with great fervor and torment

But in this regard, my actions turn awry

And lose the name of order.  Loud they are,

The foul offspring!  Kids, in thy hands

Be all my work forgotten.

* * *